Escutcheon
by Poisoned Scarlet
Summary: Assassins Creed AU. As the youngest Evans curled his lip tauntingly at her, she wasn't sure if he was a real member of the assassins order or just another wannabe thirsty for power.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Soul Eater or Assassins Creed.

**Escutcheon  
by. **_Poisoned Scarlett_

"Are you _sure_ she's here?"

"Yes, of course I'm sure! What do you take me for, a fool?" He hisses and the assassin sends him a deadpan look, one that makes him bristle and once more wonder what on _earth_ made him consider taking the assassin to the tavern in the first place. "You should be grateful I'm even willing to help you!" He looks both ways nervously. "She is not one to be trifled with, and the armor of which you seek is something very precious to her family - _ngh_!"

"Take me to her," he sneers, clutching the feeble boy from the local bakery by the neck. With sweat beading on his forehead, the mans gloved fingers digging into the tender muscle in his neck, he looks up fearfully at the assassin. The hood of his cloak shields his face in a sharp shadow but not before he catches a glimpse of terrifying red eyes. "Now!" the assassin barks and drops him, his hand clenching into a fist that the bakery boy cannot overlook.

"Th...this way," he murmurs, hunched over, and pushes his rounded spectacles up his nose as he leads the way down the dank alley. Soul Evans lets his gaze sweep across the surrounding area, his eyes lingering on the strange marks that scratch down burnt stone walls. His brow creases and when he darts his eyes back to the bakers assistant, whose name escapes him but he is sure rhymes with Ford, he finds the boy glancing both ways again with that jerky tremble of his.

"What's wrong?" he asks and it's like whisper against his ear, menacing in the way only assassins could manage.

Ox Ford glances at him from over his shoulder and only manages to point down another twisting alley, to raucous laughter and the sound of hands being clapped in hilarity. "I might have forgotten to mention," he begins sheepishly, with a waver in his words, "that the tavern she occupies is _often_ visited by the Templar's..."

Soul stares and Ox is sure he's going to assassinate him right then and there. _Slice_, right up his neck and before he can even utter a scream. A clean execution. But instead he's met with dark red eyes, a terrifyingly calm smirk that only makes Ox wonder yet _again _why he offered to bring someone of the infamous Evans Family to the head of another infamous family most widely known as _Albarn. _

The Albarn family had long since seen its glory days. Now, it was simply history, with many of their members scattered throughout the world. Not much is known about the Albarn family except that they had been infiltrated a long time ago and they had fallen in the way flowers do: silently, and without any ripples. The Albarn family's heir is tight-lipped about the deeper issues but Ox knows enough to know that this armor of theirs is legendary for its strength and any assassin to be in possession of it could very well slaughter an entire army with little to no damage. So the stories told - myths, she had told Ox, myths and nothing more.

Ox's own curiosity had always been something his mother tutted would get him killed one day. He's sure mother knows best, perhaps _too_ well, as the assassins adjusts his weighty cloak and tells him to hurry.

"Why are you in such need of the armor?" Ox whispers, nudging the backdoor of the tavern. It gives in like he expects it would and he ignores the sharp arch of the assassins brow at the easy break. "It's said to be a myth, you know, and even if I take you to her there is no guarantee she will hand it to you - or even tell you where it is!"

Soul snorts. "It's actually hidden?"

Ox looks at him scornfully. "_Now_ who's the fool -?"

"Who's there? Ox?" another voice chimes, curious. It's deeply feminine, Soul thinks, sounding more like it belonged in a chorus of nuns than in the confines of a corner tavern. "Is that you? What did I tell you about coming in that way! You know if someone sees you, I'll have to actually have that fixed and I am a little tight for money at the moment!" She throws the door open and, for a second, Soul is stunned.

She's this svelte and petite thing, tiny compared to him, with wide emerald eyes and dusty pink lips set in a line. Her skin is soft and even like porcelain and she fits the description of a boxed doll almost too perfectly. The rumors had not been wrong there, the pampered heir of the fallen Albarn Family practically a doll made for display, but where they had been wrong were the _delicate _and _fragile _and so _broken by the death of her father _that he had heard floating around the village.

_Unreliable information,_ he thought, surly.

There was absolutely nothing delicate or fragile about her as she stared at him, the quick breath of _Templar_ escaping her lips, before she drew a blade hidden beneath the lining of her apron. He had just enough time to grab it before he realized it was a distraction. His brother would piss himself laughing if he ever heard he had been bested by a girl half his size because he had been distracted by her eyes _again_.

_Shit._

She slams him against the wall, a hidden blade sliding from beneath her sleeves. It hits his jugular with deadly accuracy, digging in enough that a wrong swallow would puncture flesh. He can hear Ox scuttle away behind him, back out the door no doubt terrified out of his mind. "What brings you here? You have no business here - _get out!_" She growls and he grabs her wrist, lifting his head enough to reveal his eyes her. Instead of startling her, of buying him those two seconds of advantage, she hardens her eyes and pulls his hood off completely. "I know you...Wes?" She says, tentatively, but shakes her head soon after. She stares at him. "No, you're not Wes..."

"Soul Evans," he answers with a sarcastic smile. "And I would feel much more comfortable if you didn't bring up my idiotic brother while threatening my life. I really don't want to die with his name being the last thing I hear," he grimaces and she gives him a lengthy look before she loosens up her strangle-hold.

"Why are you here?"

He holds her gaze evenly. "For the armor."

Her eyes narrow and she sharply jerks him to the right. A table screeches away with a shove of her foot and he barely makes a noise when she shoves him against a brick nook near the storage room, her green eyes dark and hard. He did not need anyone to tell him that convincing her to hand over an armor which had been passed down from brother to brother would be a feat next to impossible. He knew that too well already.

"And just _what_ makes you think that I will give it to the likes of you, an Evans? You don't think I haven't heard about you - there _are_ rumors!" She extends her hand and he watches her flip her knife expertly between her fingers, clutching it by the hilt and pressing the flat side of the blade against his neck again. He doesn't make any sudden moves because he has an idea of what she is and a part of him is thrilled, wants to grab her by the waist and toss her at a wall and watch her kick off it like he expects she will but another part of him, a part of him says that women in the Albarn family were not trained to be soldiers, assassins, says something is wrong.

Albarn women were trained to be leaders, not assassins. It's in the tradition of the Albarn family for their wives to be leaders, their husbands to be assassins and their sons to follow in their fathers footsteps.

"I need it."

"For what?"

"I think you know."

"No, I don't."

"I'm sure you do - _alright_, you don't," he clears his throat when she taps the blade against his neck tauntingly. "And you won't ever know. Just hand me the armor and we can move on."

"How about I hand you my knife," she smiles and it's deceptive in the way only a woman can be, "and _I_ can move on?"

"That works, too - _and_ that's not what I had in mind," he grunts when he feels blood drip down his neck. He shifts his eyes back to hers and what she finds is deep amusement, not the hesitancy she expects. She's a lot more interested than she should be. Her father had wrote her a letter once, before his fall, and in it he had detailed that there will be men who would come forth to try and take the armor. It was her duty to prevent them from taking it. She was the judge now, the head of house, and she would choose who was the most worthy of the armor. So far, watching the youngest Evans curl his lip in a smirk at her, tauntingly, she wasn't sure if he was a real member of the assassins order or just another wannabe thirsty for power. She had a feeling it was the former, though.

"You don't strike me as a very good assassin," she says offhandedly.

"You don't strike me as a very good barmaid," he retorts and in her split second of annoyance, he flips their positions pins her against the wall. She doesn't gasp: she just knees him but her knee hits armor. That doesn't mean he can't feel it, though, and he's quick to slam her hand against the wall before she can get anymore underhanded moves, a blade against her throat just as he feels the tip of _another_ dagger against his stomach. He twists his lip in a sneer, "Who do you think will die first: you or me?"

"_You_," she smirks and he grins, avoiding a swipe. He grabs a dusty pan that lies on a table to block her next swipe and rolls over, avoiding another hard kick. He grabs her wrist and aims for a punch but she dodges that, twists around in a way that makes him look on for a few split seconds longer, and he brings her into him and uses his body weight to crush her against the table.

"Wouldn't that be breaking code?" She thinks fast. "The order is still running strong! You wouldn't want to incur their wrath, would you?" She kicks but he keeps her still, grabbing her chin and forcing her face towards him.

"I'm not here to kill you, I'm here for the armor."

"Again with the armor, why do you want it so badly? In the end, it's just that: armor. Do you want_ glory?_" She sneers, slipping out her last dagger from beneath her sleeve stealthily. "Do you wish to be praised for bringing down the _last_ member of the Albarn family?"

"Glory is short-lived, and not all it's cut out to be," Soul sneers right back, aware of the blade that inches closer and closer to the break in his armor. "I have no care for it." His eyes flicker and he bows his head slightly, the shadows blending in with him in a manner only an assassin could achieve. She watches his mouth as he says, "_You_ would be the one breaking code here," and she barely makes a sound when he grabs her hand tightly to stop the blade in its tracks.

"What are you trying to say? I'm _not_ an assassin!"

"You have the training for one."

"I picked up a few things from watching my father," she defends and he chuckles.

"Not things like this, you can't. You're lying."

She growls and he really thinks he should have patted her down _before_ taunting her. It would have saved him another close call and it doesn't help that she's just as ill-tempered as they said she was. Ill-tempered but not led by it, he thinks, blocking another vicious swipe and pushing her against the table this time, gripping her beneath the knees and pushing her legs up towards her chest to keep her from grabbing anymore knives. She grabs the back of his hood, yanks it back enough that it chokes him. Her fingers are rough against his neck and the blade caresses his cheekbone dangerously, her thighs squeezing his waist to keep him still. She's hardly panting, he's hardly menaced, and he thinks that if maybe training back with his brother had been anywhere near as interesting as this, maybe he would have picked up on everything he needed sooner rather than later.

"I don't cater to those tyrants," she huffs and he snorts.

"Prove it."

"No," she grunts and he grabs her wrist before she can really hurt him. Her knees dig into his waist painfully but he ignores it, holding her back so she did not reach into another one of her millions of pockets to pull out something worse. "Tell me why you really want the armor!"

"Tell me why you're catering to Templar's!"

"I said I'm not!"

"You don't think I've been watching this place since the beginning?" He hisses. "Do you really believe I'd let that bakers assistant just _lead me here blind?_"

"No," she presses her lips together. "But I am curious as to why someone from the Evans family would want my family's armor. It's true it's renowned for its craftsmanship and its resiliency however in the end it's just that: armor. Why do you want it?"

"For what it means," he answers and she stares. "Your family motto, do you know it?"

_"Agere sequitur credere. _Action before belief!"she scowls. "Although for you, it's more like asinus ad lyram!"

"Funny," he deadpans and she scoffs. But he sees how her jaw clenches, the nerve jumping. It's her, he knows it is. It _has_ to be. This is all he needs to confirm it. But now all he needs is for her to admit it. "I didn't think you would be catering to the very people who brought your family down to its knees," he murmurs, holding her hostile gaze. "You must have a very good reason for it."

She parts her lips for a vicious response and then she pauses, giving a look that most cats share. He doesn't feel very good about it and he can almost hear his brothers taunt in his mind: _how many times have I told you not to get ahead of yourself, little brother? _She straightens up and the glimmer in her eye is enough to tell him he'd need more time with this mission. "You're not here for the armor, are you?" She says, eyes twinkling. Her teeth bite her lower lip and he makes sure to follow the movement only through his peripheral. "Evans youngest, you can't be older than eighteen...well, consider this mission _failed_," she smartly says and he makes sure to keep calm.

His objective had been to find her, the spy hidden amongst a nest of their enemies, and now he found her. But if she did not tell him that she _was_ then he could kiss being one step closer to a master assassin like his brother goodbye. If he couldn't even get a decent confession out of her, how could he expect to be officially inducted into the order? Given, his brother played dirty: not only had she already known his family but she had ties with the order and _of course_ she would figure it out eventually. It was almost unfair, keyword being _almost. _

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says, calmly.

"I think you do."

"No, I don't," he snaps and presses his blade closer to her neck. She giggles and he wonders how much longer he can keep this up. She nudges the blade off her neck and her hips shift, her hips grinding against his, and it's then he becomes very aware of just how stuck together they had become. He feels his face heat, his throat close up, and he jerks back while she tries to wiggle out of the uncomfortable spot he had shoved her in, unaware of his flustered choke.

"Brother, when I said you needed to force a confession out of her, I didn't mean it quite like this."

"...Wes."

"I didn't think you'd be sending your own _brother_ after me, Wes!" Maka shouts, looking less than amused with his rude intrusion. She should have expected it. "He was _born_ into the order!"

"Rules change," Wes swiftly answers. "He needs to pass."

"I've never heard of that," she murmurs, shifting her eyes to Soul.

_"I'll get you back,"_ Soul growls under his breath and she snorts and slides back until her back is against the wall, lifting a leg high up into the air and nimbly landing beside him without anything more than a quiet shift of clothes. Soul hides his blade again and when he turns to face his brother, he ignores his dark look and only scowls when Wes points at his hidden blade.

"That is not a _toy,_" he hisses.

"I know that."

"Stop treating it as one!"

Soul rolls his eyes and he ignores his brother when he grabs him by the front of his cloak and levels their faces. "You're seventeen. At eighteen, you must become a member. You have fourteen weeks. _Stop treating this as a game,_" he sneers and drops him. "Meet me in an hour. We have things to discuss," and he disappears in a sweep of robes and darkness, leaving both of them standing in the middle of a dark storage room.

"He's right, you know," Maka speaks up and he spares her a glance. She's back to being an inconspicuous barmaid and he thinks that she has the whole 'hiding in plain sight' rule down to a fine point. "Fourteen weeks is not a lot of time to pass the exam. If you don't pass now, it'll be years before they consider you again."

"I know that."

"Then why aren't you taking this seriously?"

"Who says I'm not?"

"I can see it, you weren't taking me seriously at all!"

"You weren't, either!" he accuses and she juts her lip out, crossing her arms over her chest. He tightens his cloak around himself, pulling his hood over his head to hide his warm face. "Temptress," he mumbles, miffed, and she huffs although he catches the satisfied curl of her lips. "You knew the entire time. I should have known when you confused me with my brother."

"Not the entire time. I wasn't sure. I get a lot of assassins wandering around here, looking for information. I had to be sure."

"About the armor," he suddenly says, looking at her. "I really was interested in it, not for its value but for what it stands for. Wes holds the title of head in our family but he doesn't think I'm adept to be an assassin," he clenches his teeth, bitterly. "But I know what I believe in so I'll live up to your family's creed. I'll pass that exam in fourteen weeks."

Maka gives him a lengthy look and she smiles, some warmth returning to her green eyes. "If you pass," she begins, catching his attention, "come back here. Fight me one more time, no holding back, and if you beat me," she smiles and he has to keep in the twitch of his own at the familiar twinkle in her eyes, "I'll give you the armor."

He grins and she clasps her hands behind her back, cheeks warming a little but not enough to show under the cloak of shadows. "You have yourself a deal!"

She holds her hand out and he takes it and, unbeknownst to them both, there would come a day when not only would he be dressed down in her family's honored armor, but his back would be towards her in a sign of trust and hers to his, surrounded by the tyrants their order strove to defeat, with both the creed of her family and the order at the back of their minds.

* * *

**A/N: **This is an Assassins Creed AU that the author Redemption13 gave me the prompt for. I had fun with this one! I'll probably continue it although right now, I promise nothing lol

Hope you all enjoyed it!

_Scarlett._


End file.
